


Auld Lang Syne

by shewhowritestoomuch



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: (partially), Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, But mostly fluff, Deaf Character, Everyone is a bit too soaked in water for anything to happen, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gibson's Real Name Is Philippe Hugo Guillet, Implied Sexual Content, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 12:32:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14790584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shewhowritestoomuch/pseuds/shewhowritestoomuch
Summary: There is a universe where things go a little differently, people are a little kinder, and the world is a little softer despite the bombs going off in the distance. And in this universe, people who should have made it to a happy ending actually get what they deserve.(It's mostly fluff, there's a little angst, but mostly fluff)





	1. Should Old Aquaintance Be Forgot...

**Author's Note:**

> So, I found this while cleaning out my old computer. I have a WIP which I should be working on, but I have exams and assignments due, so, I decided to post this work (Which only required minimal editing) instead.
> 
> The title is an old Scottish song (well known in England, and Australia, but I'm not sure of anywhere else, which my grandmother used to sing at New Years Eve.

Alex had been on two ships which were sunk before he ended up on the hospital ship. He had not dried out at all between sinkings, even now he could feel the puddle of water that was forming around his feet. Still, he was one of the lucky ones, one of the ones who had escaped both times, even when those who were objectively better than him, more deserving than him had died, trapped in the hold of hospital ships and destroyers which had fallen victim to enemy torpedoes. It didn't worry him too much, surely his luck had turned now and he'd be home soon, and given the scale of defeat they'd experienced, it would be a good while before he was sent out to fight again.

Even if they did end up going off to some distant front almost immediately, it couldn't possibly be as cold and wet as Dunkirk. While he was sure that the city may have had its better moments before the war, the wind which was blowing a gale coupled with the furious waves dissuaded him from ever planning a return trip. Everywhere he looked, he saw the huddled soldiers, desperate to get off the beach before the next plane dive-bombed them. As the cold wind buffeted at them, and the water from the sea came spitting at them, Alex couldn't help but wish that he'd never been dragged into the war, that he'd stayed a coward in Glasgow. It was a thought which stayed with him as he watched two young soldiers transport a wounded man on a stretcher onto the deck and try to stay themselves. As he saw them leave the boat under the orders of the shipmaster, he wondered if they were much older than he was. The tired expressions on their faces reflected the deep weariness that had settled into him when they had been beaten back by enemy forces, and now festered within his soul.

As the boat had the last few stragglers kicked off, and the moorings were untied, he let himself breathe a sigh of relief, he'd not be sad to see the end of Dunkirk.

As such it was a horror to feel the impact of a falling bomb, and then the screeching of metal collapsing against metal as the boat started to crumple in upon itself. So many men were throwing themselves overboard to avoid being trapped aboard only to find themselves crushed between the pier and the hull. Much as he hated the thought of that being his only way out of this situation, the Scot had no choice but to follow them into the cold water.

Alex himself was close to becoming one of the many corpses, doomed to have their very life squeezed out of them, when he felt himself being wrest from the water by the two soldiers from before. As he looked at them, he couldn't help himself but smile at their beauty.

The two boys on the mole, Alex thought, were the most exquisite creatures he had ever seen. He hadn't even heard them talk and he was already prepared to swear his undying loyalty to them. Of course the times being as they were, there was a distinct chance that he wouldn't get the opportunity to even try.

As it was, they were looking at him strangely, the one with straight hair staring at him as though he was assessing for madness. The smile might have been the cause of that, so he stopped, and nodded at him, hoping that it would suffice to allay any fears the other soldier had. It was still a bit too much to ask him to talk, so he continued to stare, transfixed by even the smallest of movements of the two soldiers.

For the briefest moment he wondered if he had drowned when they pulled him out of the water. They looked so angelic, that he was two seconds away from asking if they were in heaven. The only thing stopping him were the screams of the men caught between the mole and the ship; even with the proof of angels looking at him, heaven would surely be a little kinder to the souls that reached it. Instead, he reached out with one hand towards the closer one, and smiled.

"Thank you." It felt like it took an eternity for the boy to take his hand, even longer for him to respond.

"All good mate." What might have been a painful northern accent to a more objective observer was music to the Glaswegian's ears. If Alex had been given more time he probably would have lunged forward and kissed him, provided that the northerner didn't object. As it was there were too many witnesses, and the commander was already starting down at them and promising another ride out of there. So he remained silent as he followed the two boys up off of the wooden skeleton of the mole and onto the small ship destined for a destroyer.

It was only by chance that he saw the silent one's dog tags, _Gibson_ the only word discernable in the low light. The Glaswegian was more distracted by the ugly recent mark on his neck. His hand reached out almost of it's own accord, only stopping in its approach when the soldier flinched away. The other one, the northerner, looked towards them at this, his attention having been previously devoted to the shrinking shoreline.

"I'm sorry." The hand fell away, Gibson returned to his standing position. Alex had thought he feared nothing, not after everything that he'd seen, but now he was terrified of the prospect of losing the two soldiers before he even began to know them. Still, he had to ask, "What happened?"

Gibson just shook his head, drawing his collar closed with the same air as a baroness clutching at her pearls. It was the northerner who ended up talking.

"Don't feel bad, he doesn't talk to anyone," the reassuring smile given to Gibson, as tired as it may have been, only served to make Alex even more fond of the soldier.

The sea air was cold upon his back, so the Glaswegian felt no shame in huddling a little closer to Tommy. The other soldier smiling slightly and moving closer to him emboldened the Scot, opening his mouth in an attempt to give a well thought out declaration. As with most love-struck people, any eloquence Alex may have possessed was immediately lost, the only thing managing to get past his lips being: "I'm Alex. Alexander, really, but um, call me Alex." How was this happening? He'd won the English prize in sixth form!

"I'm Tommy."

Tommy, so perfect a name for so perfect a person. Of course, now that he'd found out the name, there was little else to ask. They stood in silence until the boat approached the destroyer, and even when he was aboard, Gibson went to the deck, and Tommy was preoccupied with the jammy toast and tea that the nurses were handing out. Alex stared at Tommy, watching the idiosyncratic way in which the slightly crooked jaw moved as he ate. He knew he shouldn't stare, that while he was quite happily queer, the rest of the world wouldn't be, that it would be very difficult to explain away his staring as just mates being mates, but he couldn't help it. They were alive, he was joyful for it.

For a few seconds when the torpedo hit, but the lights hadn't gone out yet, a macabre thought occurred to him: that if the last thing he was to see was Tommy, there must be some kind force out there. The thought was quickly dismissed by the sheer volume of water that hit him in full force, his only concern being somehow getting out of the sealed coffin that was the destroyer.

While he had never been a particularly religious man, Alex found himself truly believing in the angelic nature of his rescuers as he saw the door being opened,a belief which only increased when he saw that his salvation had at least been in part engineered by Gibson.

The water was still as cold as ever, but he didn't care, so long as Tommy had escaped from the water with him, and Gibson was alright. They clung to the rope that he threw to him from the lifeboat after one of the superior toffs had told them to wait in the freezing water, Alex thanking the world at large for whatever had brought such an angelic force to him. He knew he should come up with a better adjective, but it was all that his brain was providing him with, and as he was in the middle of a warzone, he wasn't aiming for Shakespeare.

Eventually they reached the shore, he and Gibson helping Tommy to peel his hands off of the rope when the northern private proved incapable of doing it by himself. There was little sympathy coming from the officers at the nineteen-year-old's small whimper at the experience of the rope being peeled away from where it was embedded in his skin, so Alex did his best to comfort the northerner by running his fingers through the straight hair.

"It's okay, I promise that it's going to be okay."

One soldier, the one who had tried to leave him and Tommy to drown approached him.

"You should return to your regiments. Now." There was no hint of a friendly suggestion in his words but Alex would not find himself parted from the two soldiers who had saved his life. So he continued to stroke Tommy's hair and started to murmur sweet nothings to the now silently weeping soldier.

"I'm here Tommy darling, it's okay." Alex let his head fall onto Tommy's shoulder, smiling at Gibson as the silent soldier helped both of them out of the worst of the surf. "C'mon, we'll find somewhere to patch you up." Both Alex and Gibson smiled as Tommy nodded his head, and began to stand on his own two legs, still clutching at his hands and crying slightly.

The officer rolled his eyes and departed.

As they remained on the edge of the water while everyone else dispersed to other parts of the accursed beach, he looked at his Tommy and his Gibson, and for the second time of the day, but only the third time of the war, he smiled. Eventually they settled slightly up from the shore, the sand still damp, but not enough to soak their clothes any further.

He turned his head to Tommy, only to find him asleep and clutching at his rope-burned hands with a wince etched upon his face. He turned to face Gibson to find the intense eyes fixed upon him.

"I won't leave you, I don't care what any officer says. Thank you, Gibson."

The soldier shook his head his face crumpling the more Alex talked, and the Scot found himself frowning, what could be so wrong that such a good force could seem so upset.

"What's wrong? Are you hurt? I know how to apply a bandage, I can help."

Gibson continued to shake his head, sitting up and leaning away from Alex. The Glaswegian tried to follow, giving Tommy a cursory glance before sitting up to catch Gibson's eye.

"Je ne suis pas anglaise, et je ne m'appelle Gibson." The French soldier started to get up before Alex reached out a hand to stop him. For a second not-Gibson seemed worried, as though he thought that Alex would have hit him, would have tried to hurt him. Alex shook his head, reached out a hand to placate the soldier. Maybe if he had been more desperate, if he'd been around other people, if he'd not felt so happy to be alive, he would have been angry, and done things in that anger which he would have regretted for the rest of his life. But he was just exhausted, far too tired to be angry about a Frenchman trying to get away from the cursed sand of Dunkirk beach.

"C'est bon, mon ami," he took the soldier's hand and smiled again, "comment tu appelles?"

The French soldier let out something resembling a sob before he nodded his head, "Je m'appele Philippe."

"Philippe?" Alex let his head fall to rest upon the sand, all of the energy sapped from him by the cold water.

"Oui, Philippe Hugo Guillet."

"Well then, thank you, Philippe Hugo Guillet, merci."

They nodded at each other, twin  expressions of tired happiness forming on their faces. Alex shrugged and nodded to Philippe, and so, the both of them crawled back through the wet sand to sandwich Tommy between them.


	2. And Never Brought To Mind

When Tommy awoke after the dark night which had lead to him nearly drowning, it was to the feeling of two pairs of hands nudging him awake. At first, he clung to the darkness, not wanting to be awoken from the only slightly bittersweet dream of held by two good men, but after a few seconds of the insistent shoving, he found himself opening his eyes.

Alex was quick to smile down at him from where he sat, and Tommy was quick to smile back. They'd probably all be dead soon, he'd be glad to die with some friendly faces around him.

"Hello," it was a stupid thing to say, but it was all he could think of. The Scot didn't seem to mind, reaching for his hands, the taller soldier wincing in apology as the rope-burn made Tommy cry out slightly. They both looked at his red hands, Tommy's eyes flickering shut as Alex rubbed his calloused thumbs against the edges, careful not to aggravate the damaged skin. He tried to resist the shudder which was building up inside of him at one of the first soft touches in months, not wanting to be beaten within an inch of his life yet another time.

"Hello," the Scot smiled at him, and delicately, oh so delicately and carefully, he slotted his hand over Tommy's "It's all right, I'll not hurt you," Alex looked up, the intensity of his gaze making the English private want to avert his eyes. Instead, Tommy looked at the hand, felt its warmth, and sighed in relief. He was alive, and in the company of good people. Still he found himself asking:

"How did you know I wouldn't kick your head in?"

The Scot shrugged, Tommy watching his every movement with a burgeoning fondness that he felt he wouldn't be rid of any time soon. It was only after Alex brought Tommy's hand up against his cheek that the Scot spoke. "I suppose you'd call it intuition."

The other pair of hands became more noticeable as they removed his hands from Alex and put them under thorough inspection. Tommy turned to see Gibson at his side, not being over-sympathetic when his ministrations increased Tommy's wincing. "Gibson?"

"Non, Philippe."

Tommy looked to Alex for explanation. The Scot wasn't particularly helpful, just shrugging. "I don't think that either of us are in a position to be fussy, 'specially not us."

Tommy nodded, smiling at Philippe as the Frenchman inspected his hands. Tommy looked over to Alex tilting his head slightly in question. "What do we do now?" It was barely daybreak, to early for even the enemy troops to be bothering them. He sat up and looked out to the brightening horizon with fear. There were enemies to the north, enemies to the east, enemies to the south and an uncaring ocean to the west. Even as the dawn came, there seemed to be no hope with it, only a cold harsh light which illuminated the hopelessness of their situation.

Still there was beauty in the world, he looked at Philippe with a tired smile. He had barely passed his French in his final year of school, but there were some words that everyone and their mother knew, so he used one:

"Merci."

Philippe nodded and went to check Alex.

If you'd have told Tommy, when he was running through the town of Dunkirk, that he'd befriend a Frenchman posing as an English private and a Scot who had a deficit of subtlety in his affections, he would have laughed and called you daft. As it was he was still struggling to believe everything which had happened in the past day, the only thing convincing him that this wasn't some sort of fantastic dream being the feeling of Alex clutching onto his shirt while Philippe examined his head for injury. They were far away enough from the lines of soldiers that he felt no fear in leaning towards Alex and letting his face grow closer and closer. His breath hitched as the Scot began to rub his thumb against the back of his hand, his heart beginning to beat faster as their noses nearly collided.

"You know, when I saw you first, I was convinced I'd died and gone to heaven. Thought there were angels fluttering about me." Tommy would have normally rolled his eyes at the Scot's melodrama, but as it was, he was quite happy. It wasn't everyday you were called a heavenly creature after all. Made bold by the shelter of the dunes and the beautiful face above him, he leaned in the final few millimetres and stole a quick kiss. It was broken quickly by Philippe gently shoving his head away when the Scot began to move too much, but it was a kiss nonetheless.

"He's probably going to find a concussion now you know," Alex looked at him curiously, "I'm sure hallucination is one of the symptoms."

Alex snorted and leaned away, his eyes making Tommy's skin flush as they passed over him. Philippe did not seem to have the same susceptibility to the Scot's gaze, collapsing between the two of them when he'd finished with Alex. He looked up at Tommy as though he was expecting some reprisal, when the northerner could never have done something like that. The truth was that he had grown fond of the French soldier, the first inkling of good emotion emerging when they had worked in tandem to try to get aboard the hospital ship. It had deepened into admiration after the destroyer being sunk, and Philippe's rescue of him, and had become even stronger after he had ignored orders and thrown them the rope. It was a fledgling emotion to be sure, but one which with the right care would surely become healthy and long lived.

Tommy let Philippe pull him up, smiling when he felt Alex move in tandem with them. His expression fell as Alex began to speak.

"We've been alright being apart from the group so far, but I wouldn't like to be so close to the perimeter. We should head back to the rest of the men."

The logic was sound, Tommy barely grimacing when he nodded and walked in that direction away from Alex, pulling Philippe with him.

"Tommy?"

He stopped, letting Alex catch up with him. The highlander deserved at least a little of an explanation.

"Tommy, what's wrong?"

"You'll be next on a boat, then?"

It was lucky that they were still behind the dunes, the way Alex's hand came up to rest against his cheek unexplainable in any circumstance.

"What do you mean?"

"You have a regiment," the northerner shrugged, leaning into the Scot's touch. "Mine's all dead, and I don't even know what were going to do with Philippe."

"They weren't taking a roll," the Scot let one hand fall to rest on Philippe's shoulder, "we can say you're with me, call you highlanders."

"They only have to look at our dogtags to know that we aren't."

Tommy pulled away, looking Alex in the eye, he could almost as the mental mechanisms working as the Scot let his hand fall back to his side.

"Do you want me to go? Leave you and Philippe?"

"No!" Tommy school his head vigorously, "But I can't... I can't... I won't sit on that beach, and watch you sail away, and not know if you're living or dying."

"I don't understand. Don't you want to be away from here?"

Tommy shook his head, biting his lip when Alex rested their foreheads together. "I want us to get away from here, together. But I know you have a shot to get away from here alone, and I can't ask you to throw it away for me or Philippe."

Alex nodded, and Tommy couldn't help but smile as the Scot meant forward to kiss his forehead, and then Philippe's. The northerner let himself relax as the Glaswegian tucked his shirt back into his pants, and pulled his belt tight around his hips.

"Truth is, at this moment I feel more a queer than a highlander. And I'll be evacuated with you, being that you also belong to that nearly minted regiment, yeah?"

Tommy nodded, smiling in relief as Alex led him back to the beach, only pausing to help Philippe hide his dogtags under his shirt. He smiled as the Frenchman leaned forward and kissed his forehead too. Clearly the admiration was reciprocated then.

True to the highlander's word, the three of them sat down a bit apart from the other stragglers who had lost their regiments. If any nearby highlanders minded, then they didn't seem to voice their curiosity, even as more men began to walk by.

Eventually, it became clear that even the privileged highlanders would not be getting on a ship that day, the sun travelling over the sea and behind the horizon. Tommy did not object as Alex pulled him and Philippe to lie down, instead revelling in the relative warmth provided by his greatcoat draped between the three of them. Alex himself provided some heat, his front plastered Tommy's back, leaving the northerner to stare into the fluttering eyes of Philippe.

As they curled up together, uncaring of the tide leaking into their already soaked boots, Tommy became aware of something.

However recent this feeling was, Tommy knew that he looked at Philippe with nothing but love in his eyes. There was little short of the devil himself would have been capable of dulling the brightness of the northerner's eyes and the elation which filled his heart when he saw the Frenchman now. Despite his eyes being much less prone to grand displays of emotion, the English private thought that Alex was much the same. You could tell by the way that by the time Tommy woke up again, another greatcoat, carefully nicked off of a corpse, his lifejacket, still drying out from the hospital ship, and one of his dogtags had migrated from his person to Philippe's. The slightly stolen items were roughly equivalent to Tommy's own 'new' jar of sweet peaches, full canteen, and helmet. It was a simple fact that while the three still knew little about one another, there was a something well on its way to permanence being forged between the three soldiers.

That was why, when the three saw the highlanders' division marching towards a Dutch trawler the next morning, it only took a slight whimper from the curly haired Frenchman to stop the two Brits from following them. It was too close to the perimeter, and its hull was too brightly painted to go unnoticed by enemy snipers.

Alex nodded at his French-English pidgin that he drew out in the sand to explain, while Tommy tried and failed to get Philippe to allow him to at least see his neck. While it seemed his voice was still raw from the rope that had been drawn tightly around it only a few days before, but the Frenchman had no issue in hissing in displeasure. After Tommy feared that he may provoke tears if he were to act further, he shrugged, rubbing Philippe's arm to show that he wasn't going to upset him any further.

While Alex held an internal monologue about their next course of action, Tommy traced out the proper English translations of the words above the French, and repeated them in a soft even voice. He smiled at Philippe, reaching out with one hand to cover his, "We'll teach you more when we get back home yeah?"

_Je ne comprende pas_

The northerner shrugged, frowning as if trying to remember something long forgotten, then with an uncertain voice: "Tu comprendras."

Philippe smiled and nodded, while Tommy leaned in to rest his weary head on the other's shoulder. They were interrupted in their quiet moment by Alex.

"Fuck it, I'm going out."

Tommy startled, his hands reaching out to try to hold onto the Scot. "We'll die if you do. The sea's rough out there."

"We'll die if we stay here, and I don't know about you but I'd prefer the ocean to kill me than the bloody stukas." He was desperate, hands reaching out to the two men he'd attached himself to. "Please." When Tommy stayed silent, Alex leaned in so that his face was barely half a centimeter from Tommy's. "Please Tommy, I can't die here, not at Dunkirk, please."

Of all the things which Alex could be accused of, uncharismatic was not one of them, which was how he, Tommy and Philippe ended up floating on an overturned damaged rowboat out into the channel.

Tommy shuddered as he felt the cold salt water fill his boots, and then soak his pants as they propelled themselves out past the breaking waves. It seemed that the tide would be going out for another few hours yet, and that if they were to escape the beach, now was the best time to attempt it.

While he wasn't particularly verbose, the northerner felt that it would be wrong to start their escape attempt in complete silence, and so:

"You know," both Alex and Philippe looked up at this, able to pay attention now that they had passed through the worst of the waves, "whatever happens, I'm glad I've met you." He nodded when he was done just as his father used to do before him. Had he looked up he would have seen twin smiles adorning the faces of his companions. As it was, all that he saw was two hands moving in tandem to take his.

A foolhardy measure it may have been, but at least he was not alone.

After a few hours, when the sun was sitting directly above them, the beach had finally disappeared from view. They had a half broken oar to steer with, but aside from that they were at the mercy of the vast and uncaring ocean. Philippe had by this point fallen back asleep, slumped against Tommy while Alex did his best to get them across the channel with nothing but a waterlogged compass. Tommy himself was starting to fall asleep, doing his best not to fall off the craft when he heard Alex humming under his breath.

It was Auld Lang Syne.

"Isn't that for New Year's Eve?"

"It's all that's in my head." Alex smiled, leaning forward and pulling Philippe onto his chest. "I can stop if it's-"

"Don't." Tommy looked up at the sky before joining Philippe in leaning against Alex's torso. "You sing well."

For a moment, all was quiet, but then, as it always must, the pressing urgency of the situation reared its ugly head.

"How long, do you reckon?"

Alex shrugged, "We're headed west, and we're too shallow for a U-boat to hit us. That's all I know."

Tommy nodded, smiling at Philippe as he awoke.

The three soldiers were so absorbed in one another and their slightly defective compass that it was only by sheer luck that they were picked up by a small boat; their saving grace a bewildered pilot who had only spotted them while he was trying to avoid making eye-contact with anyone else.


	3. Should All Aquaintance Be Forgot

Philippe was not a huge fan of the water, having grown up on a dairy farm where the widest expanse of it was the trough that the cattle drank from. He'd spent his whole life in one of the provincial parts of France, to him the ocean was something that had been more abstract than anything. Suffice to say, he was more than a little overwhelmed at the moment.

The only thing preventing a complete descent into insanity was his two companions, both of them smiling down upon him now that he'd awoken.

"Bonjour Philippe," the tall one said, his hands clutching onto the compass that was their only hope.

"Ça va, Alex?" The Frenchman winced to hear his voice, a hand involuntarily rising to his throat. He did not understand much else after that point, the French of Tommy and Alex too mangled, their English too rapid, and Philippe's right ear suddenly in such a state of pain that comprehension was out of the question.

Fortunately, before the two could decide his lack of comprehension to be a liability worthy of being thrown overboard, they came into the sights of a small sailboat, and were dragged aboard with little dignity but no injury. The motley crew of sailors didn't seem to be enemy soldiers, so he let his mind wander as they were talked to by the old and greying captain and the waterlogged blonde.

He let his attention fall upon Tommy, who was yet to let go of Philippe's shoulder and was staring at the captain as Alex spoke. Tommy who had saved his life by shielding him from any close inspection by English officers, and who was kind and spoke softly and kissed softly too. Had the scrawny Englishman meant it? Did he feel as Philippe did, or was he just caught up in the moment and painfully aware that they would most likely be dead soon? They were questions which kept the Frenchman's gaze fixed on Tommy.

And then Tommy turned to look at him with something which could not be mistaken for anything but fondness, and Philippe's heart soared. He would have leaned in to steal a kiss, but for the piercing gaze of the waterlogged blonde in blue.

Eventually, after much talking and what could only be described as threats, he was half carried into the hold by Alex and Tommy, his trust of their good judgement (and the boat being too shallow to be hit by a U-boat) overriding his natural preference to stay near an escape. They were alone but for one boy tending to another.

This time Philippe was able to follow Alex's speech, the tall man speaking slowly and softly to the fourth who had not yet acknowledged their existence.

"Are you Peter?"

The boy pulled back, revealing the figure he was tending to.

Philippe didn't catch whatever the blond boy said back, his gaze transfixed upon the still form of the injured boy. Right now, he was being treated wrong, the pressure on the wound was too much, and the way he was lying liable to make the injury worse.

But all was not lost.

Philippe could fix it.

He leaned forwards and started to inch towards the boy, not understanding and thus ignoring the quiet protestations of the blond boy as he reached into the first aid kit. He could feel the eyes of Tommy upon his neck, but he didn't mind, finally it felt like he could be useful.

It was only when the blond boy yelled that he pulled back.

Not being able to see the wide expanse of empty space didn't make the fear of being thrown back to the ocean any less present. Philippe froze, his hand still clutching onto the bandage.

"Phil, it's all right." Alex spoke softly, but Philippe could hear the terse quality. If he were being sensible, he would go back, suit with Tommy and Alex and watch this poor boy slowly die.

But he wasn't being sensible, he was trying to do the right thing instead, so he began to point to himself and then the green cross adorning the first aid box in an a attempt to get the point across.

After the third time, it seemed the boy understood him well enough. He was allowed access and began to work. Maybe if he was useful he would be allowed to stay, and Tommy and Alex wouldn't realise the liability that he was. In the background, he could hear them talking to the blond boy, their voices the lightest that he had heard them in their short and pleasant acquaintance. Their voices would surely fall, as everyone else's had done, when they realised what a burden he was the rest of the time. It had happened with his parents, with all of his friends, with all of the initially soft and kind seasonal workers who had lips so soft and sweet in the spring but were gone never to return when the winter came.

As Philippe continued to work, content to have his hands full, he thought of how strange it was to find himself the happiest he had been since the war began aboard a British boat, tending to a wounded child. Did that make him a monster?

As complex as the head wound was, eventually there was nothing more he could do. He applied the ship's meagre supply of iodine ointment and returned to the sides of Alex and Tommy. The latter turned to him, the adoring look doing more to communicate his praise than a thousand words ever could have. Alex was not nearly so reserved.

"You're bloody amazing, you know that?"

Philippe did not understand the words, but he understood the smile, his own starting to form. He let himself be pulled towards the taller man, not caring if anyone saw anything. It was a shock when Alex paused and adopted a look which could only be associated with pain. What could he have done in such a short space of time to inflict such a look upon Alex? The Glaswegian must have noticed, stroking his cheek gently before leaning over to look at Tommy.

The scene unfolded silently, Alex gently moving his head, Tommy looking to him for explanation. Philippe didn't even wince as the Glaswegian examined his ear, or as Tommy tightened his grip around his chest and kissed the back of his neck. He could feel the slowly rising heart beat of the northerner behind him as Alex finally spoke, the terse answers making their way to his left ear, the tone understandable even if the words weren't. Eventually Tommy responded, and Philippe could hear his distress in spite of what seemed to be a burst eardrum, reaching out a hand to cling onto his shirt. The last thing he wanted was to upset him.

Eventually, after what felt like an hour of prodding and poking, Tommy nodded at Alex, and the three returned to resting against the wooden boards of the inner hull.

All that Philippe could dream of at this point was a good restful sleep, he had been tired since the beginning of the war, and the adrenalin rush provided by attempting a channel crossing on a broken row boat was finally wearing off.  Now covered with the blood of a boy who could still fall victim to his wounds, the tiredness was moving into the territory of exhaustion. It could be no surprise to anyone that his grasp on English, tenuous under even the best circumstances, had completely failed him now that he had to rely upon only one ear.

So when the soaking wet blond man from above decks bout only entered the cabin, but also kicked the blond boy out and started to speak directly to him, it took every ounce of willpower left in his exhausted body not to burst into tears. It didn't seem like Alex or Tommy would blame him if he did, the only thing stopping him being the pilot's slightly hard tone making him think that if he did, it might be taken as an admission of guilt. So after the pilot had finished speaking, he lifted a hand, trying to avoid getting the flaking blood on Tommy's shirt.

"Je suis français et je ne comprends pas le anglaise aujourd’hui." It was made harsh and rough by the rope burn upon his neck, but still should have been comprehensible. Even if the pilot didn't know French, Tommy and Alex would be able to translate.

And so, with that declaration out of the way he did the very sensible thing of collapsing from sheer exhaustion upon Alex's torso. Or at least trying to.

It seemed that this was not to be the end of it, as no sooner than he'd closed his eyes, the pilot was trying to wake him by grasping his shoulder and shaking it. The Frenchman resisted the urge to groan in frustration, instead cracking open an eye and pleading silently with Tommy for a translation.

His Englishman seemed to understand, putting a few words together clumsily, but with a coherent meaning. It seemed that Tommy too was beyond the point of caring about what anyone else thought of him, his hands coming to rest on Philippe's thigh, Alex mirroring him on the other side.

_He wants to know that we won't try to hurt anyone, it's how the boy was injured._

Philippe nodded at Tommy and then at the pilot, hoping he'd understand. It seemed to do the job, the blond rolling backwards on his feet. Another sentence was uttered and again he turned to Tommy for the translation;

_He asks about your neck._

A hand rose of its own volition to cover the still healing scar on his neck. It had been surprisingly hard to patch up the wound without basic medical supplies or a mirror, and he was still worried about the risk of infection from the sand that had undoubtedly gotten in while they were stranded at Dunkirk. His throat still hurt, the exhaustion had not left him and he was becoming increasingly aware of the fact that a puddle of seawater was forming around him, Alex, and Tommy. He was not in the mood to even try to explain that only two days prior he had thought that he was going to die at the hands of enemy fighters who had surprised his entire regiment. He was not in the mood to describe in detail that the cause of the scar was a broken garrotte which had necessitated the use of a rope in the attempted murder. He had no intention of trying to convey that he had spent what felt like an eternity feeling his lungs burn while his legs had kicked ineffectually. And so he shook his head and looked to Tommy to try to translate his silent unwillingness into the unfamiliar language while he fought back the tears which were threatening to spill from his burning eyes.

While Tommy did that, Alex reached out one hand to pull the hand from his throat to between the Glaswegian's own hands. Philippe's other hand was clutched into a claw, so Tommy smoothed it out while Alex talked to him.

The sounds of the dialogue between Tommy and the pilot, and Alex's quiet reassurances layered over each other in a easy which would soothe his mind one minute and then aggravate it the next, his breathing becoming harder and harder to control.

"C'est bon, mon cœur." Alex's voice was rough from disuse, but the accented French sounded heavenly. Philippe tried to smile, letting his head fall upon Alex's shoulder while Tommy spoke to the pilot with the golden hair. Neither foot soldier let go of his hands, even as he began to shake and tears started to escape his eyes. Even the pilot began to stop his endless questions as his torso fell forward and he began to heave out breathless sobs. Out of the corner of his eye, he could almost swear that he could see the injured boy moving slightly at the sound. It seemed that no matter where he looked, he would not be able to escape the omnipresence of his problems.

What was he doing? How had he let these two soldiers who he scarcely knew convince him to abscond first onto a barely seaworthy plank and then onto a family boat on its way to an unfamiliar country? He should have stayed and fought and died just like the rest of his family, rather than escaping as a coward!

As the shaking got stronger, and his sobs became even worse, he could feel Alex and Tommy move to bracket him even tighter, one of Alex's hands beginning to rub his arm, and Tommy's head coming to rest in the crook of his neck, sweet meaningless words tumbling from his lips. All it served to do was to make his shaking even worse, nonsense beginning to tumble from his lips as he collapsed fully onto the cold hard decks from the sheer overwhelming nature of the situation.

He could feel Tommy and Alex pausing, probably to look at one another, and he was just waiting for them decide that it wasn't worth it, that they should tell Mr Dawson to throw him overboard before he became a danger to himself and others.

He was pleasantly surprised when Tommy lifted his face and rested their foreheads together once again. While nothing was said, while nothing could be said, the gentle physical contact cemented the fact that he would be alright, that he was loved. This knowledge did more than anything else could have to ease the sobs and still the shaking. He smiled as his Englishman leaned in, providing him with a moment to say no before kissing him gently. Philippe couldn't help but stare defiantly at the pilot afterwards, he was already a Frenchman, why not add being queer to his list of perceived crimes too?

Collins did not react with anger, rather bowing his head slightly and heading back on deck, giving the soldiers some privacy below.

"Je t'aime," Tommy whispered, his breath softly ghosting against the skin of Philippe's neck.

"Pour tous les jours." Alex was louder in his declaration, the vibration of his chest an added comfort to the words.

Eventually, after many more sweet nothings whispered to him by Alex and Tommy, he found himself recovered enough to be pulled onto Alex's chest, the taller soldier running his fingers through the curly hair which had followed Philippe into his adulthood despite all attempts by his parents to make him look more respectable. Tommy lay on top of his lap, the weight a reminder that he was going to be okay once they reached England.

After all of the exhaustion of the day who was to notice if he feel asleep to the gentle rocking of the boat?


	4. And Auld Lang Syne

Alex breezed through the rest of the evacuation with an ease only shown by the truly exhausted. The soldiers coming onto the ship had little effect on either his composure or his internal emotional state. He had just stood by the edge of the boat along with Tommy and Philippe, and pulled as many soldiers aboard the deck as he could before the oil on the water had caught alight. The closest he had come to snapping was when he'd seen his fellow highlanders floating in the oil, and yet they'd had to pull away due to the enemy pilot crashing in it. Years later, when he was an old man, he would still remember the screams of the soldiers burning alive in the water.

He'd hoped to be able to avoid the chaos of below decks, but Philippe needed to see his patient, and both Alex and Tommy refused to be parted from him, even for a few minutes on an inescapable ship.

Alex had meant it when he had said that Philippe was brilliant. He would have repeated the sentiment as he watched him check the bandages on George, but for the presence of so many soldiers. Times were not safe enough for people like him to openly show affection. Instead he let his hand covertly slide between him and Tommy, taking the other private's hand where no one could see them. The warmth given off by him reminded Alex that they were both alive, that tomorrow would come and would have them in it. Both the soldiers were entranced as the medic finished up with George, and began to tend to some of the minor burn victims as best he could. Alex couldn't help but wonder how such a gentle creature had come to be dragged into such a violent conflict. He seemed to belong more to some fairy-tale world than the harsh seeing of reality. Eventually, after the first aid supplies were diminished by a fair degree, Philippe returned, offering a small smile to Alex and Tommy as he took a seat between the two. Any irritated looks directed at the soldiers were quickly deflected by Alex appearing as though he was ready to rip throats out with his teeth.

The Glaswegian knew that they could say nothing, that he could do nothing to show the depth of his affections with so many people about, so instead he settled for a sturdy nod, accompanied by the smallest but sweetest of smiles.

With nothing else to do, and with a level of exhaustion he had never experienced before, Alex did the first sensible thing he had done since the war had broken out; he fell asleep.

If any of the soldiers kept in the hold noticed the way in which Philippe's head rested perfectly against Alex's, or the way in which Tommy's body was slumped over the other two in a way which strained at the boundaries of soldierly camaraderie, they didn't mention it. Instead the ship's slow return to Weymouth passed in relative silence, the only noise coming from George as he properly awoke to find both of his eyes working.

Alex himself passed in and out of consciousness with neither rhyme nor reason. All he took in were snapshots: Peter hovering over George, his red sweater serving as a makeshift blanket, Collins laughing as he discovered another pilot onboard, the silent soldier quietly apologising to Mr Dawson as they passed out life-jackets to some of the more recent rescues.

When they finally reached the seaside town, some of the exhaustion had ebbed away, but not enough for him to believe his ears the first time when Peter said that he, Tommy, and Philippe were to return to his family home. The excuse that they were too injured to go on to the barracks was flimsy, but Alex found himself going along with it anyway. Neither Tommy nor Philippe seemed in the mood to protest, and it was better than having to make do with a newspaper and a bench, so he nodded and allowed the blonde boy to lead the three of them home.

It wasn't built for more than four people, everyone being served a hasty dinner of soup and bread in the crowded kitchen a clear indicator of that. Still it was warm, warmer than anything that Alex had experienced since he'd been shipped off to the continent, so he simply revelled in the closeness of Tommy and Philippe rather than focusing upon the occasional shoves which came with peoples drinking of the soup. From the way the highlander pilot and the other pilot were acting, he'd say that nearly everyone in the room was glad to be able to cuddle up to their loved ones closer than was strictly speaking necessary.

Everything moved like a dream as they were led into the sitting room, Mrs Dawson wanting to give them all a restorative cup of tea before she sent them off to bed. He knew that he should be in more discomfort than he was given that he hadn't showered for at least a week, and that his boots had barely come off his feet at all in that time. His stomach should have been growling from the intake of food so long after his last meal, and he should have had a pounding headache from the dehydration that came with being stranded upon a beach. He should have been miserable, but instead he was elated, the great feeling of being alive interfering with any of the trivial discomforts associated with the state.

Philippe was to his left, and Tommy was on his right. While the veracity of the statement that everything would be okay was in doubt, he could hardly bring himself to believe that the future would be anything but bright.

It was a thought which persisted as they were shown upstairs, he only half listened to Mr Dawson's directions, instead opting to spend most of his attention focused upon the slow moving forms of Tommy and Philippe walking ahead of him. After months of uncertainty and losing battles, it seemed strange to finally have done sense of security in his life.

So while the two pilots waited downstairs, talking to Mr Dawson and his family, he was not at all reluctant in pulling Tommy and Philippe into their assigned room and trying to kiss both passionately.

"Alex?" He slowed, pulling away from the northerner just a fraction, instead leaning towards Philippe as Tommy stared at him. "You okay?"

He nodded, smiling slightly as Philippe nuzzled into his neck. "We're alive Tommy. We're alive." It was soft from disbelief, but it was still heard.

"I know," Tommy reached out a hand, using his thumb to stroke some of the oil on Alex's face away. "I'm glad too. But slowly okay?"

The next kiss that they shared was gentle, far softer than anything Alex would have been willing to try earlier. He allowed Tommy to lift his face up and felt his soul being stared into by both of the soldiers he had thrown his lot in with.

It was Philippe who broke the silence first.

"Je t'aime, mon cœur."

"I love you too."

Alex, a creature prone to giving into his rasher side on a near daily basis, was quite unused to both the quietness and the gentleness that he was being shown. Most people didn't take the time to try to reassure him about anything, let alone declare their love. He was not used to being led towards a bed while being showered with a Frenchman's butterfly kisses, nor having people brush his hair to the side as he lay down next to them.

All in all, the unfamiliar atmosphere proved to be a boon to all three soldiers, as it allowed them to leap out of the bed and separate somewhat when they heard the sound of boots on the landing, and the sound of the key turning in the lock.

Alex was not over-pleased to see the two pilots enter, nor could he outwardly display delight when the scruffy one began to speak.

"Bed goes to the officers."

It was to be war then.

* * *

Farrier had not expected to get out of Dunkirk. He had started the descent in his plane with the full intention of allowing himself to be captured by the enemy. It just so happened that the more rational part of his brain objected to him leaving Collins for so long a period, so once he was sure that the plane wouldn't be landing on top of any allied troops, he'd ditched it. It had been a great relief to find his feet on solid ground again, even more of a relief to find himself shuttled onto a boat quite quickly afterwards.

Maybe it had been slightly foolish to fling himself overboard and start to doggy paddle over to another ship which looked only vaguely familiar when he saw a shock of blonde hair aboard the deck, but it was made worth it by the radiant smile he received from Collins, _from Asher_ , when he was brought aboard The Moonstone.

"Ye looked to be a goner mate." was the first thing he heard from his dear friend.

"Well I couldn't leave you to defeat the enemy single handed, I'd never hear the end of it." It was a glib comment which didn't fully encapsulate all the horror of what they had seen and would see again, but he needed Collins, his Asher, to understand that he was alright, and his normal way of doing that was too dangerous to attempt in the crowd of the boat.

Even when they were on solid British ground again, there was to be no privacy. The young blonde boy invited them back to his place, citing that they were unlikely to be needed right that night. He would have refused, if only to be able to spend some time alone with his dear Asher, but the Scot accepted before he even had time to comprehend what was going on.

The house was not overlarge, but somehow there was enough room to house himself, Asher, and three drowned rats masquerading as soldiers in what had once been the elder Dawson sibling's bedroom. The pained look on Mr Dawson's face was enough to stop him from mentioning the thick layer of dust covering everything. It was so very easy to hope that if nothing was changed a horrible thing may be reversed, he was no sort of person to try to change that.

The three younger soldiers, having spent most of the past month in less than sanitary conditions had probably not seen the dust, nor it seemed were they aware that anyone with a brain would've been able to tell that they'd been messing around on the bed based on the displacement of it. He hadn't had a chance to talk to Asher about how safe they were in the house, but even if Mr Dawson had been the proud proprietor of a Molly-house, he would have paused at the idea of becoming biblically acquainted with anyone only hours after nearly being set on fire by enemy dive-bombers. It was true that life was an aphrodisiac, but not to that extent.

He had nearly died today, and the last thing that he wanted to have to listen to was a bunch of inexperienced and emotionally imbalanced privates make clumsy love while he was stuck on the wooden boards of the floor with little but Asher and a pillow for comfort. All this is to say is that "Bed goes to the officers" was far more than simple snobbery. It was insurance for him to get eight hours of sleep before he had to explain to his superiors how three top of the line spitfires had met their doom in the channel in the course of only one hour.

There had been several awkward moments spent standing around the bed as Asher and the tallest of the drowned rats conversed without words, their eyes locked in a silent but fierce battle. Eventually the blonde pilot won, the trio of soldiers retreating to the other side of the room, some pillows and a blanket their only consolation. Farrier frowned as Asher motioned for him to join him underneath the covers. The other pilot spoke for the first time since they'd entered the bedroom,

"They're as queer as folk," the blonde began, stripping off his shoes and jacket with practised efficiency, "and you've always been an early riser." He shrugged, finally clad in only his white undershirt and boxer shorts. "Besides its not like I'm asking you to ravish me like the protagonist of some penny dreadful." Farrier had no argument to counter this, so began to pull off his turtleneck. He was ready to join his partner in crime and most other things when he felt the prickling of someone else's gaze upon his neck. He turned to see the shorter curly haired soldier starting at him.

"You got a problem mate?" He hadn't meant for it to come out quite so harshly, wincing when the soldier took a cautionary step back into the one with straight hair. The Glaswegian ended up answering, pulling the spooked soldier behind himself and shaking his head.

"No problems mate." Farrier's least favourite Scot pulled the soldier down next to him on the nest of blankets that they had created, ending up so that the two curly haired soldiers bracketed the other, pillows serving to elevate their heads off of the hard floor.

For the slightest second, Farrier felt just a little bit sorry for the sods, but then Asher's head fell upon his chest, and all that he could think of was how happy he was to be alive. It had been less than 24 hours since he'd been in this exact position, and yet, it felt like a millennia. Eventually, Asher turned his head and spoke, the vibrations rolling across Farrier's chest.

"We're safe here. He'll not turn us out or over to the police."

Farrier brought a hand up to stroke through the blond pilot's hair.

"How did he find out?"

"Apparently my concern was a little too much to be considered as simple worry for my brother in arms."

Farrier kissed the top of Asher's head, he meant it about the eight hours of sleep, but his chest became tight at the thought of Asher worrying over him.

"You know that I would never leave you voluntarily, yes?" He smiled as his lover brought up a hand to rest on his chest, relishing the feeling of the still soft palms upon his skin. "Not unless you asked me to."

"We do not always get the luxury of voluntary separation in this life."

It was true, as were most things. Still...

"But to stay with you I would defy the God of man and beast, all to keep you by my side."

He could feel Asher smile into his chest.

"You know, you get overdramatic when you are worried." The blond pilot looked up. "I love you."

"I love you too."

After such a long and uncertain day, it was no surprise that he fell asleep very quickly.


	5. For Auld Lang Syne, My Dear/For Auld Lang Syne

George was to stay up until such a time that a doctor had determined his head wound to be non-lethal. The silent medic had attended to him again when they had reached the house, but his companions had conveyed that he thought a proper medical professional would be required. Hence, he and Peter were sitting up on the floor of Peter's room, talking quietly while they waited for the sun to rise.

"Thank you, for trying to take care of me on the boat."

Peter shrugged, in truth he was worried that his primitive first aid measures had done more harm than good for George, given that the medic had done the opposite of everything he had. Still, his best friend was alive and relatively well, so who was he to complain?

George stared out the window, looking at the stars in the sky with contentment plastered across his face, deep seated in his heart. It was summer yet, the sun would rise soon, and they'd be able to go to the doctor and assess the damage. For some, the uncertainty would have been nerve-racking, unpleasant, but all that George could think about was that he had reached home, and so had Peter. It was not a surprising statistic, given that they were both young men who had little to fear from the war while they were still too young to be called up, but something in George crooned to him, and suggested that he was lucky to evade a future which didn't have him in it. Maybe it was time to start to seek out a life worthy of being in the papers, rather than waiting for an event to launch him there.

George could not and would not make any sort of claim to being particularly acute or deeply philosophical, but he knew himself well enough to know that there was no place he would rather be than by the side of the only person he had known and adored for his entire life.

"I would have bled out weren't for you, and that's no mistake. You saved my life well and good and you're not to forget that." He smiled as Peter smiled and gave a salute to recognise the command. "Do you reckon that we'll have to go? To the war I mean." It was a bad question for such a serene night, but Peter didn't seem to mind.

"I hope not." So did everybody who had to live through a war, George supposed. It was one thing to be living in a constant state of worry about a coming invasion, but it must have been a thousand times worse to live in a constant state of worry about flying bullets. And even if you survived the bullets, you wouldn't necessarily come back the way that you were meant to, his own Da was proof enough of that. George could see no similarity between the man who treated him as a nuisance at best and the protagonist of his mother's stories of a childhood sweetheart who used to make daisy crowns for her to wear. In his darker moments, before the war had broken out, he used to be jealous of Peter, whose father had survived the Navy relatively unscathed. Now that everything had become so uncertain he was just grateful to have Peter and all else became inconsequential.

The seventeen year old reached out a hand for his friend. It hung for only a fraction of a second before Peter took it and smiled again. Nights like this, where George was the verbose one, were rarities to be treasured, so the dark haired bout again opened his mouth.

"If we do have to go away-"

"George-"

"No, listen. If we are sent away, I want you to know that I'm glad that I've had you as a friend for so long, and that I think that I'm the luckiest man in the world to..."

He didn't know how to finish.

Peter understood.

"Me too."

They both smiled shyly at at each other with the new realization that however one felt, the other must also. And as the sun rose, and the birds began to sing, there was nothing in George's head but the thought that the world must have some good in it after all.

* * *

Tommy knew that people didn't always return from war unscathed, the men of his own family were testament to that. Still he had not expected to be awoken by the whimpers of Alex in the night. He rolled over to face the Scot, hoping that he would be able to wake the slightly taller man before he woke the entire house screaming.

"Alex, Alex love," he tried to stroke some of the hair out of Alex's face, wincing only slightly when his hand was caught in a vice like grip, "Alex, it's only a nightmare, we're safe now." Tommy sighed in relief as his wrist was released, returning to his original mission of stroking the hair out of Alex's face. He stilled as their eyes locked, not even daring to breathe. Even the air felt heavy as he tried to think of a way to comfort Alex.

"I was drowning," the Scot began to whisper "we were drowning. All three of us. And I couldn't Tommy, I couldn't do anything."

Tommy nodded, lying back down and letting his hand rest on Alex's chest. He knew little in the ways of comforting others, and so tried for the stiff upper lip that the officers always went on about.

"Go back to sleep. You'll feel like shit in the morning if you don't."

"I can't." Alex's voice was beginning to sound rough with unshed tears, and Tommy could feel his own throat tightening in sympathy. "Please Tommy, help me. I can't, please, Tommy, please." Tommy reached out with one hand, allowing the tears to track over his fingers as they began to fall down Alex's cheeks.

By this time Philippe had woken, reaching out with one hand and curious eyes to try to placate Alex.

"Alex? Mon ami?"

It only served to make Alex worse, the tears beginning to seep through into the blanket. Maybe, Tommy reasoned, at this point he needed to let it out. The only question now was how Tommy could help him. The northerner leaned forward, letting his forehead rest against Alex's, permitting Philippe to hold both of them far tighter.

"It's okay, we're okay, and we're not going to drown, okay love?" A kiss at this point would have probably made things worse, so the northerner settled for running his hands through Alex's hair. "We're going to live through this, us three, together, okay?"

He could feel Alex nod, the Scot relaxing enough to rest his head upon Tommy's shoulder. Tommy rolled back to give Philippe better access to Alex, not letting his hand be wrenched from Alex's hair.

"Even if we have to hide in some godforsaken forest in the freezing cold of Scotland, we'll be together, okay?"

"Okay."

Tommy nodded and closed his eyes, for a moment it seemed that he would finally be able to sleep easy. He smiled as he felt Alex move him onto his side, the lanky arms coming around his sides to rest in the middle of his stomach.

They lay like that for hours, none of the three really sleeping, all of them taking comfort in the silence. Eventually, Tommy supposed, Alex must have gotten sick of the lack of sleep, and so he wasn't completely surprised by feeling a cold set of hands work their way under his shirt.

"Tommy, are you awake?"

Tommy had been worried when first he'd gone to war, for things which used to happen on a daily basis had stopped. Eventually a corporal had taken pity upon him and informed the barely 19 year old man that, no, that was a perfectly common side effect of spending most of the day and night in the company of flying bullets.

"Yes. Why?"

He'd almost forgotten the feeling of desire coiling in his gut, the pleasant warmth derived from beautiful company. Now looking at Philippe, he finally felt it again. Now, feeling the press of Alex's torso against his back, he remembered that he was alive.

It was a feeling cemented by the touch of Philippe's lips against his own, a kiss he was quick to reciprocate for fear of it being withdrawn. The darkness had emboldened both of his companions, Philippe and Alex moving in sync, as though their amorous attempts on him had been planned. At that moment in time Tommy did not care that they were not in their own homes, that they were sharing a room or even that there would be many tasks ahead of them trying to explain Philippe to their superiors. At that moment all that mattered was that they were alive, and on the safer side of the channel. And as he felt himself rolled onto his back, the rough hands of Alex moving further under his shirt as the Glaswegian rolled to be on top of him, while Philippe's hands stayed on either side of his face, he could not bring himself to worry about any of it.

"Promise me Tommy," Alex's breath was hot in his ear, the weight of the other soldier upon him reassuring rather than suffocating, "Promise me you'll not leave me."

They were desperate words, and he knew not how to answer them properly.

"I love you," he smiled into one of Philippe's kisses before turning to face Alex properly. "And nothing will stop that."

Alex leaned over to Philippe, looking back at Tommy with one eye as he kissed and was kissed by the eager Frenchman. "People say that, but then they do anyway."

Not wanting Alex to be unsure of his intentions, Tommy pulled himself up into a sitting position, pulling, Alex and by extension Philippe onto his lap. "I am not people, and I won't leave, or stop loving you," he turned to Philippe, burying his nose in the thick curls, "et toi, je t'aime."

The northerner smiled as he felt Alex collapse against him. He smiled again as he felt Philippe start to kiss his way up his neck. "I love you Alex, I won't leave."

"Kiss me."

Tommy could never be accused of being uneager, so he did. This was not the first time he kissed Alex, nor would it be the last, but this specific kiss was the one he would treasure above all others. To Tommy, kissing Alex felt like coming home. It was an experience which could only be matched by kissing Philippe, which felt like soft summer rain on his skin. The both together felt like something completely heavenly, and he would have given anything to stay in a state of such excited happiness for the rest of his life.

Of course the pillow chucked at them did do a lot to put off the blissful state he had been entering.

"It's four in the morning," came the clipped tone of the English pilot, who, when Tommy looked up, was wielding another pillow, "Go the fuck back to sleep."

Philippe of course, took that exact moment to nip at Tommy's neck, a small whimper escaping from the English private, and the pillow making contact with the Scottish one's face. Tommy would have applauded the accuracy of such an unwieldy missile if it hadn't been aimed at him.

"I will deliver you back to Dunkirk myself if you don't go back to sleep." The tone suggested that the threat was real, and even Alex in his happy brazenness was unwilling to risk it. So the three soldiers separated, though Philippe's arms remained about Tommy's neck, and Alex's were not to be moved from underneath his shirt. Tommy, for his part let one hand fall to rest upon Alex's hand, while the other came up to fall in Philippe's hair.

The extra pillows ended up settled comfortably underneath his back, Philippe and Alex snuggled slightly closer to lift themselves up off of the cold floor.

They would have time to discover every inch of each other later, for now proximity would have to suffice in place of actual conversation until the sun rose. As Tommy felt his two companions start to fall back asleep, he remembered how different the circumstances had been less than two days before and how even though the future was still an uncertain beast, with the probability of the three of them being redeployed almost certain, he was so very lucky to be right where he was.


	6. We'll take a cup of kindness yet/For Auld Lang Syne

How Mr Dawson's house managed to become a haven for the confirmed bachelors of Dunkirk was beyond him. It was not that he minded overmuch, just that the mathematical likelihood of it all seemed a bit low. He wondered briefly if there was some sort of magnetic attraction between them, but this being a thought which arose before his morning coffee, he dismissed it out of hand.

As he observed the five rescues they had fished out of the ocean, all of whom had atrocious table manners bar Collins, he felt an uncharacteristic stab of fondness. The day before had been something of a miracle, and here was the proof of it. Peter and George were off at the local doctor's, sent there after the silent medic had done a final frantic check. It was this soldier who Mr Dawson was observing as he tried and failed to make sense of the ham and cheese croissant that had been presented to the soldiers by Mrs Dawson. Even though he was doing his best to be quiet, the medic's voice carried over to the head of the Dawson family:

"Il ne est pas un croissant," even if Mr Dawson hadn't been able to hear it, the private known as Tommy snorted loudly enough for the entire table to hear. "Un croissant a le pain et le beurre, ne a pas le jambon," the medic insisted, only quieting down when Alex forced a croissant into his mouth.

"C'est bon, mon cœur." Mr Dawson smiled as Collins resisted the urge to flinch at the heavy Glaswegian accent. He remembered when he had the energy to pursue pretty feuds based on the origin of his compatriots. Now he was restricted to gentle disagreements with his wife about which grocers had the better turnips.

Farrier smiled at his companion's grimace, covertly covering the Scot's hands with his own beneath the cover of the table. Of course, nothing missed Mr Dawson, but he said nothing. Even the kindest words could be a shock, and not something needed by men who had been prepared to lay down their lives for their country. Instead he simply sipped his tea, and it was likely that the morning would have continued in the same fashion were it not for the return of Peter and George only a few seconds later.

For possibly the first time in their lives, George was the relatively sedate one, while Peter was practically jumping for joy. Mr Dawson smiled as Peter picked up a croissant and took a messy bite.

"He's fine! It's just a concussion with minor bleeding." So excited was his youngest, _only_ son, that even the surly Farrier managed to restrain a grumble.

"That right George?" it was unlike the younger boy to be so quiet.

"They said I might need glasses, I've got to go to London to see a specialist," the brunette shrugged, trying not to dampen Peter's joy too much, "but other than that I'm fine, right as rain."

"Well sit down boys, you must be starving." George ended up next to Tommy, Peter between Collins and Alex.

As the two pilots attempted to wrest the croissant tray out of the soldiers' end of the table, and George and Peter exchanged small uncertain smiles, the former sailor continued to do at his coffee. He knew that dark days lay ahead of him, ahead of the rest of the world. There were to be horrific things soon, and there was no mistake about it. Yet, while there were men cheerfully eating ham and cheese croissants at his table, he could not but help remember the ability of good to shine through in even the most awful situations. Dark the times may have been, but hope had not yet been extinguished. By Mr Dawson's reckoning, it was one of the pleasantest breakfasts in the history of his quiet dining room.


End file.
